Mountain Fall
by CaughtOutInTheDark
Summary: Sherlock and John are on a mountain and John falls. Sherlock has to help and comfort him. Can be interpreted as slash or strong friendship. My first story.
1. Chapter 1

**This is my first story I've put online, please review thoughts and criticisms, but be kind!**

**Implications of slash between Sherlock and John, or just very strong friendship. In short, somehow the two of them are on a mountain and John falls…**

**Do you think I should add more chapters?**

**Disclaimer: I do not own Sherlock, unfortunately. But love the show! XD**

John was feeling more than a little blue. He was freezing beyond anything he had ever experienced. The mountain air howled around him. He was so cold.

When he had fallen, his warm coat had snagged on a rock and been wrenched away, leaving him with only a jumper to keep out the intense chill. When he had come to his senses, he was lying face down in the never ending snow and his ankle was broken.

Now the fierce sub zero temperature was proving too much. He couldn't walk, call for help, or get warm. His face had turned a botchy red from the snow he was still lying in. He couldn't feel his legs anymore. Or his hands. He was so cold that he wasn't even shivering.

_Sherlock. _He thought to himself. _Help me._

The notion that he was going to die out here, alone, turned out to be overwhelming for John. A single tear trickled down his cracked face – then froze.

_Anything to escape this. Anything. God help my soul._

Then the darkness surrounded him and wilfully, he let it claim him.

"John!" Sherlock bellowed. "JOHN!" He couldn't even hear himself above the noise of the wind.

One second, John had been there, standing beside him. The next – whumph. He had gone, the ground giving way beneath him.

Sherlock cursed himself for bringing John into danger. If anything had happened, he would never forgive himself.

"JOHN!" He screamed. His mind was refusing to work, the cogs in his brain frozen like the ice around him.

He had to find John. That was all he knew. That was all that mattered.

No guide. No ropes. In the dead of night. How could he have been so foolish? Without a thought for his own safety, Sherlock began the dangerous descent.

His coat. John's coat, resting on a ledge.

Sherlock widened his eyes in fear. If John had no coat in the weather, it wouldn't be the fall that would kill him. It would be the cold.

As he continued climbing, John's coat slung over one shoulder, he kept on yelling John's name, straining to hear a reply but hearing nothing. He cried out until he was hoarse. That was when he found himself on a steep slope, where an unmoving figure was half buried under the snow.

Sherlock recognised the body before he was even close to it.

"John! JOHN!" He charged towards his flat mate at full speed, spraying bits of snow and almost slipping in his haste.

He knelt down and roughly pulled John out of the snow.

John was half frozen.

Sherlock was certain that he was dead. Hesitantly, he felt for a pulse. When he found one, he was actually just shocked. John was still alive… John was still alive…

But for how much longer?

Sherlock hauled John into a sitting position and hurriedly put the coat back on its owner. He took off his own gloves and fitted them onto John's hands. Somehow, his own pair had fallen off.

"John?" He shook John hard. "John, can you hear me? Answer me!"

John mumbled something incoherently and his eyes flickered open.

He still wasn't shivering. That was a bad sign.

"Can you feel your feet?" Was the first thing Sherlock had to know. No sentimental talk.

John frowned, vaguely wondering where they were. Memory flooded back to him. He frowned again, not really taking Sherlock's presence in.

"John…" Sherlock pleaded. "Can you feel your feet or hands?" Still with a horribly blank expression, John couldn't answer. Sherlock took the silence as a 'no'.

Quickly, still holding John up, he began furiously rubbing the man's hands. John gave a groan of pain as feeling returned. Without hesitation, Sherlock undid the buttons of his coat and pulled it around John as well. Partly ice-covered, John leant on his chest, the ice coating his face and hair melting slightly.

Feeling colder by the minute, Sherlock began stroking John's back, warming his friend a little more. John's head was like an ice pack and it made Sherlock shudder. But at least there was a chance that John could get more heat.

Moaning at the unexpected body heat Sherlock was providing, John began to shiver,

Sherlock gave a small smile, partially relieved. It quickly faded to a frown when he thought: How are we going to get down?


	2. Chapter 2

**Thank you for the lovely reviews! I think this story has the potential to be good, but I'm kind of rushing it. I'm not sure how to make it longer. There's one more (final?) chapter on its way though. **

**Please keep reviewing, I've never shown anyone what I've written before!**

They leant against each other for a while. John was still suffering from severe hypothermia and Sherlock was desperately worried.

He glanced at John's foot. It was twisted at a strange angle and the snow underneath was stained with red.

_Broken. _The detective thought numbly.

One thing was certain. If they stayed where they were, John would die. Already, he barely registered that Sherlock was there and was unresponsive to anything that the younger man said.

"John, we need to get out of here." Sherlock muttered, more to himself than his friend. "And we need to keep moving. To get warmer." He gently pulled away and re-did his buttons. One hand stayed on John's shoulder, to stop him from falling backwards back into snow.

He stood up, then hoisted John to his feet.

At once, John's legs gave way. It was bad enough with the broken ankle, but with how cold his legs were, it would be impossible for him to walk.

Sherlock stooped and caught him as he fell. John hung down like a rag doll, weakened to the core. Sherlock felt a steady boost of panic. With John in this state, getting to safety was going to be difficult.

There was only on thing for it and Sherlock had to do it now before he felt to cold himself.

He lifted John from the ground and held him in his arms.

Staggering with the weight, Sherlock lurched forwards. The slope was close to vertical so he had to constantly stop himself from falling over.

His bare hands, blue from the weather, felt John's body begin to cool again.

Sherlock wasn't sure what to do about it. One thing was certain though. The wind was fierce and the slope was slippery. They had to stop for a while.

Close to collapsing, Sherlock lowered John. The latter had again stopped shivering and he was only semiconscious.

"Don't worry," Sherlock soothed. "We'll be down soon. I promise, okay?"

John managed to whisper, so faintly that Sherlock had to crouch even closer to hear the words.

"I trust you, Sherlock."

Sherlock brushed a thumb against John's pale cheek to reassure him. The truth was, he didn't know if he could trust himself. And that frightened him.

In an overwhelming sense of desperation to keep John warm, Sherlock took off his own parka and placed it on top of John like a blanket, already feeling his teeth chatter at the rush of icy wind.

"No…" John murmured. "Sherlock… n-no don't…" Feebly, he raised a hand to give the coat back, but the effort was too much for him. He was shivering again now. The woolly coat was helping.

"Got to keep m-moving," Sherlock's teeth were chattering hard by now.

Taking his time, he gathered John back up in his arms and straightened up, the coat firmly wrapped around the older man.

Then he carried on walking.

It all went pretty smoothly. Until he lost his footing.

He landed on the ground with a thud and before he knew it he was rolling and sliding down. He felt John suddenly vanish from his grip and all he could see was snow, mountain, sky…

And he came crashing to a stop, snow in his hair and shirt. For a moment, he lay still, allowing the world to stop spinning. Unsteadily, he got to his feet. John was lying a couple of metres away, still clutching onto Sherlock's coat and shaking badly.

"Sh-Sh-Sherlock?" He managed to blurt out.

"H-here." Sherlock stumbled over. The snow in his clothes was freezing. "J-John… y-you alr-right?"

"F-fine…" John managed to whisper. "Christ… my… a-ankle…" He gasped, scrunching his face up in pain. Sherlock jogged on the spot to keep warm. After a few moments, he leant down and covered John in his coat again.

He glanced down and saw to his relief that they had nearly made it. He could see the small hut quite clearly, resting on a flat plain near the bottom of the mountain.

He laughed at the fate that had landed them here.

"Look! John! We're almost there! H-hang on a bit l-longer."

Once again, he lifted John up and slowly they made their way down towards their temporary lodgings. Now, Sherlock had to focus on ensuring that John made a full recovery.


	3. Chapter 3

**I've been stuck for a while on what to write, and my GCSE's are quite time consuming as well. So I've bashed something up, and I'm trying to make it longer, but I'm fairly stuck for ideas. I've got a few, but my brain feels like it's been wiped. Any suggestions would be welcome to help me!**

As the abandoned cabin crept closer and closer, Sherlock realised that he was feeling very weak. So weak in fact, from the chilling cold that was driving all feeling away from him, that he knew deep down that walking the short half mile to safety was probably going to end up being one of the most difficult things he had ever attempted.

He still had no coat, and the effects were radiating through his body like sharp needles. He was shivering so hard – he couldn't feel the tips of his fingers and couldn't even stand properly, even without the added difficulty of John in his arms.

John.

The poor army doctor had drifted into unconsciousness, and refused to wake up when Sherlock shook him and called out his name.

Sherlock wasn't sure how long his friend would last.

So he staggered on, sifting through the powdery snow with visible difficulty, pain etched on his face.

The fierce wind bit at him, forcing tears to spring from his eyes. Feeling rather light headed all of a sudden, the detective remembered the last time he had cried real tears. It had been a few months back, at night, when he first realised that John was his other half, his sounding board, his closest friend, and that he actually cared about Sherlock's well being. And he had felt happy then.

Now John was unconscious, possibly going to die of hyperthermia and it was Sherlock's fault.

_Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock._

No, it certainly wasn't, especially when the unwanted thoughts were slowing him down.

The snow whipped around them, and the log house momentarily vanished from view. Sherlock stumbled on, half blinded by the ice being flung at his face. The wind was picking up and a storm was on its way.

His body was suffering badly.

The detective stumbled again, and landed on the soft snow with a thud. He cradled John close to him, panting heavily. The white fog of his breath was continuous. Also, John was still alive too.

But Sherlock was now fighting to stay conscious himself. He growled in frustration, before allowing a sob of despair to pass from his lips. He was so cold and so alone. He didn't want to die.

John was visibly slightly blue now. Sherlock studied him carefully. His best friend was about to die. And he couldn't let that happen. Scarcely daring to believe that he had enough energy left in him, the man made sure that the coat was wrapped around John securely and stood up, swaying and blinking hard to fight the darkness threatening to engulf his senses. He hauled John by the armpits, and began to pull.

Sherlock was obviously aware that John would become even colder than before if he was dragged along snow, but he had little alternative. Picking his flatmate up now was no longer an option – his hands could no longer flex properly. The normal, logical Sherlock would have found a better solution but this Sherlock was cold cold cold, literally for once, not metaphorically, and he needed to spend his remaining power by physically getting himself and John to shelter.

He heaved with all of his might, for John's sake.

If John were to die here, the burden would rest on him, and Sherlock would never forgive himself.

Time passed. It could have been five minutes or two hours when they finally arrived at the destination. Sherlock resisted the urge to collapse at the door in relief, for fear that he wouldn't be able to get up again. He elbowed the door gently, keeping a grip on John lying at his feet, and found that it swung open easily.

Gritting his teeth in determination, he stumbled inside, taking in his surroundings in a second. There wasn't much. The log walls and ceiling, and small bare floor and an unlit fireplace, with a few logs sitting awkwardly in a basket, waiting to be used. No blankets, no food, nothing else.

Sherlock moved John to the centre of the room and laid him down.

The wind outside was still chilling him to the core.

Sherlock went to the door and gave one big final push, exhausted and desperate to help his friend.

There was a bang as the door closed, that echoed around the fragile cabin. And then his keen ears picked up a faint rumbling that grew louder by the second. The whole cabin shook hard and Sherlock fell to the floor next to John, refusing to believe his bad luck.

He had inadvertently started an avalanche.


	4. Chapter 4

**So, here's another chapter. The problem with me when I write a story is that I simply don't know when to stop or finish. Endings are possibly one of my weakest areas. But this chapter isn't the end, don't worry, it's far from it. I still need some guidance as to what happens next…!**

The cabin was shaking so hard that Sherlock was certain that the roof would collapse on them. In desperation, he crawled over to John and leant over him protectively, wanting to shield his blogger from harm, knowing that it would be fruitless. He closed his eyes and waited to see if they would die or not.

There was clearly no point in praying to a God that he knew didn't exist, and in that moment, he was strangely grateful John wasn't awake to shout out his usual 'Jesus Christ' oaths.

He was aware of the snow outside crashing down like waves, engulfing the small log house. He knew the consequences. Even if the shelter withstood the frenzy of the snowstorm outside, they would still be snowed in.

And, with no warning, the avalanche stuttered to a standstill.

The cabin stilled and all was silent.

Trembling ever so slightly beneath the incessant shivering, Sherlock stood up. He went over to the door, his hand reaching for the doorknob.

He drew back suddenly, common sense flooding back into his mind. Stupid. There was no point opening the door, or the snow would rush in and they would end up more frozen than they were now.

Teeth chattering constantly, the black haired man went back to John and checked him over, concerned.

The doctor was breathing brokenly, suffering from the extreme arctic conditions. Snow had settled into his hair like dandruff. He wasn't shivering. His lips were blue. His face was paper white.

Sherlock swallowed hard, forcing the panic back down once more. He needed to keep calm. He lifted John up to a sitting position and brushed the snow away as best he could, before adjusting the makeshift blanket that had once served as his coat.

Hurriedly, he put his arms around John and drew him in close, rubbing his back vigorously and feeling the coldness emanating through his own body.

"John…" He mumbled. "J-John… wake u-up." He stuttered over the words, the chill in his body making it hard to communicate. He had to waken John. Had to keep him awake after that. Had to see to that broken ankle.

Had to keep warm.

The fireplace.

They were about two metres away from the basket of logs and twigs. Sherlock took a glance at it and immediately observed a box of matches on the floor near the corner of the room. Someone had been careless. Probably the last travellers who had used this place to rest in.

A fire was the perfect ally they needed right now. Though a fire in a wooden house was a little risky. He would just have to be careful.

For the meantime, Sherlock continued rubbing John. His hands from the work were warming up, and his efforts were being rewarded. John murmured something unintelligible and began to shiver again.

Another thought flashed on Sherlock lightening fast. They had mobiles. Of course they had mobiles. Mobiles would help them get out. Someone would rescue them. Allowing John to lean on his chest, one of his hands reached into the front pocket of the coat around his companion and pulled out his phone.

The screen was shattered, smashed to bits whilst Sherlock had been dragging John over the snow.

Sherlock exhaled calmly. John still had a phone. It had been in a shirt pocket, not his coat. It couldn't be broken. They could still get help.

Gently, he placed his hand on John's shoulder and hauled him upright. He put his fingers in the pocket he knew it would be in and he clasped metal. Thank goodness, it was there.

He was eager to contact someone. Mycroft. Emergency services. Anything to hear the sound of another voice telling him that John would be fine. He turned it over in his hand. It was still intact.

He wiggled his fingers a little, to help them when they needed to dial the number.

He turned the phone on.

And the screen flashed up, the words _Please Connect to Charger_ typed up in neat lettering. The message faded and the mobile powered off.

They were truly cut off from the rest of the world.


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for not updating in a while, I've been ill. Thanks to Servant05 for giving me ideas I may use now/later! Oh, and this chapter reminds me of _The Hounds of Baskerville _a little.**

Sherlock's eyes widened in disbelief. Then he swore in annoyance and glared at John, still sitting limply, supported by him. His expression melted into one of guilt, close to tenderness. How typical of John to have not recharged his phone. It wasn't his fault. It could never be John's fault.

Sherlock hugged his shivering flatmate tightly, partly to warm them up and partly for comfort. Feeling John pressed so close to him soothed him a little, and forcing himself to stay rational, he wondered what to do.

Outside it had still been light. They could still see dimly in this room, despite the snow blocking the window. So there was a light source then. Good. That was a good start. Sherlock located it within moments – the grate in the fireplace was covered in a sheet of faint sunlight.

Sherlock grinned, relieved. So there was a way out! The chimney, of course. The avalanche hadn't been strong enough to cover the cabin entirely. The chimney was sticking out of the snow. And it meant that there was an escape route after all. He could have laughed, but chose not to. Focusing was paramount.

Carefully, he lowered John's shivering form back onto the ground and went over to the fireplace. He stuck his head over the unlit logs and peered upwards, already feeling the cold wind on his face. Above, he could see sky, bright blue, wonderful sky. Freedom. They could survive this… they would survive this. For a few more seconds, Sherlock allowed the tiny glimpse of sky to fill his mind with absolute relief and bliss, ignoring the fact that he was absolutely freezing. They would survive… they would survive…

And then, another faint noise caught on the whistling wind. It was so imperceptible that even Sherlock couldn't trust his ears at first, but then it came again, noticeably louder, and closer.

Howling.

Wolves. Dogs. Wild animals.

All were out there, and all were getting nearer.

Sherlock craned his neck in vain to see more, but he couldn't.

And then there was a skitter of paws on the snow directly above the hidden cabin, and the short sharp yaps of the feral dogs that lived out here in the cold desolate region of mountain.

The visible sky was suddenly snatched away as a monstrous black-furred muzzle came into view, mouth open as it panted and barked, perfectly razor sharp teeth straining to bite at Sherlock's face, as the creature explored the chimney opening hungrily.

Sherlock gasped, refraining a scream threatening to enrage the hound further. He drew back sharply in shock, banging his head hard on the ledge, but ignoring the sudden pain. The barking continued. Although the distance between them and those teeth was a good two metres away, Sherlock dreaded to think of what would happen if one of the dogs managed to slip down into the room. He and John would be killed in seconds.

"No, no, no…" He muttered. Thinking fast, he ran over to the corner where the matches were. Scooping them up, he took one out with cold-bitten fingers and struck it alight on his first attempt. Back at the fireplace, he lit a smaller stick and watched the orange glow spread, until other pieces of wood began to burn as well, and plumes of smoke began to drift up. The owner of the muzzle yelped and drew back into the open as the blaze continued. Now Sherlock finally laughed, shakily. "That's right…" He called, voice echoing a little up the chimney. "Can't get us now, can you?"

Above his head, he could still hear the dogs, tirelessly padding around. He did his best to ignore them.

"John?" He tore himself away from the vision of dogs mauling him to death and went back over to the doctor. "John, you need to wake up." His voice was controlled, but inside he was begging for a response. He needed another voice badly. He lifted John back up and sat them both down closer to the warmth of the fire. It was helping them, faster than Sherlock had thought it would. The room seemed warmer, and John was shivering continuously.

"Come on!" Sherlock said, agitated when there was no answer. He adjusted the coat so that it was covering them both and held his friend nearer to him. "John… please."

John shifted slightly and opened his eyes with difficulty.

"Sh-Sh-Sh-Sherlock." He managed at last. "I'm… c-cold."


	6. Chapter 6

**I'm not sure how good this chapter is, but I'm sort of tired at the moment (not that it's an excuse or anything!). Reviews, as always are appreciated. More chapters to follow. This may end up being a rather long story…**

"Of course you're cold, what did you expect?" Sherlock scoffed, rubbing John's back vigorously. "The fire will warm you up."

The other man grimaced in uncontrollable pain.

"Oh J-Jesus, I think… I've b-broken –"

"Your ankle, yes. We'll worry about that later. Can you move your fingers?" In vain, John attempted to, but failed to lift even his arm up.

"I'm… too w-w-weak." He conceded. His nose and ears had turned bright red. At least colour was slowly returning. Sherlock reached down to examine John's white fingers, before pausing and briefly meeting his colleague's eyes, as if asking for consent.

John couldn't help laughing shakily.

"F-For crying out l-loud, t-this is the l-last p-place someone's g-gonna see us. H-Holding hands… it's the l-least of our w-worries."

"I wasn't asking for your permission. Why would I do that?" Sherlock asked as he fondled John's icy hands in his own, transferring heat. John smiled a little, with difficulty, as he recalled Sherlock using his laptop, taking his phone – without so much as a nod in his direction. "No, I was thinking."

"About w-what?"

"You."

John stiffened, alarmed, but Sherlock was quick to reassure him.

"Not in that way…"

"Then in what way?"

"… We need to escape soon, but with that ankle, you won't be moving anywhere in a hurry."

"And w-what do you p-plan to do?"

"Me?" Sherlock stated incredulously. He was uncomfortably aware of the howling outside. "Try moving your fingers now." He muttered, before continuing. "What do you mean I have to sort this out? You could help as well!"

"Oh, God." John closed his eyes in exasperation. "Where… a-are we?"

"A cabin, snowed in, halfway down the mountain." Sherlock informed. He narrowed his eyes. "Why?"

"So, I'm t-trapped? In here? W-with you? Oh, Christ… h-how am I s-supposed to s-survive this – argh! My… f-fingers,"

"You can feel them?"

"Hell, yes."

"Keep moving them."

John drooped a little, exhausted, and Sherlock draped an arm around his friend's back, purely with the intention of keeping him supported. In response, John leant his head on the detective's shoulder, closing his eyes. He was starting to feel a lot warmer now, and a puddle of water from the melting snow was slowly pooling around them.

There was a long silence. Sherlock continued staring into the fire, constantly thinking, brain unable to figure out away of consoling John in any way. Eventually, he realised that it would be best to at least apologise for what had happened – it was his fault after all – and tore his eyes away from the swirl of flames to speak.

"I'm sorry –" He cut off sharply. John was asleep, worn out.

Sherlock sighed quietly, and turned back to gazing at the fire. Sooner or later, they were going to have to escape. Mycroft no doubt would realise that they were in some kind of trouble, but by the detective's watch, that was likely to take three days. He and John weren't expected to arrive anywhere soon. The nearest town was thirty kilometres away, and the only one who would be waiting for their arrival would be a hotel manager they had contacted some days before. Still, they had booked rooms for Friday, which was in two days, so no one would miss them for a while. Even when… _if _Mycroft's people came searching, the cabin was buried under several feet of snow. They would be difficult to find.

The only chance they had would be to wait for at least twenty four hours, and then brave the open, somehow, and escape the ferocious dogs outside. Once outside, they would have to rely on luck that they would be spotted soon, before they froze or starved to death.

Sherlock could still hear the creatures.

They had to rely on luck? Sherlock hated luck.

Worse than that, he knew that John was not in a fit state to go back outside. He would have to do it alone.

Alone meant deserting John in this tiny room, while he went off for help, possibly never to return.

Alone usually protected him, but now he just felt vulnerable.

But if John's life depended on it, he would do anything.

The only questions remaining were when and how he was going to escape, and how he was going to persuade John to stay inside while he went.

It wouldn't be easy.


	7. Chapter 7

**This chapter's a little slow, but the pace should quicken soon. Please review! A word or two would mean the world to me, thanks!**

John woke up, feeling warmer than he had done in a long while. His senses returned one by one. First, he was aware of faint breathing next to him, and then that he was leaning on something soft. Or someone. He forced his eyes open at last and the cabin blurred momentarily.

Then, in sharp focus, he took in his surroundings. The fire was still blazing, the cabin still unchanged. He was lying horizontally. Sherlock had his arms around him, cradling him gently, also on the floor. He was asleep. His face looked peaceful, but somehow different – in his confused state of mind, John couldn't work out what it was.

Drowsily, the blonde man attempted to sit up. And then yelped in pain as feeling returned to his ankle. He bit his tongue quickly, but it was too late. Sherlock was alert at once, sitting up sharply and grasping his blogger tightly.

"What is it?" He cast his eyes around in apprehension, clearly expecting to be attacked.

John calmed him quickly.

"Nothing. Sorry. Just my bloody ankle."

Sherlock frowned at him for a moment, before realising their position. He groaned softly and lay back down, wiping at his face.

But not before John had noticed.

"_Sherlock?" _He asked in disbelief, concerned.

"What?" Sherlock rolled over to his side, facing away from John. He sounded faintly annoyed.

"Are… are you alright?"

"Of course I'm alright… well, I'm bored."

John finally managed to sit up, suppressing a sob of pain. After a couple of moments he could speak again.

"If… there's anything… you know, that you want to tell me –"

"I said already, I'm fine. What's wrong with you?"

The curly haired detective sat up as well, facing John properly for the first time. They shared a look.

"N-Nothing's wrong with me." John stammered at last, embarrassed.

"Good." Sherlock responded drily. Pause. "I am fine, alright?"

"Okay, okay." Sherlock stood up and began pacing up and down the room, ignoring John completely.

The army medic furrowed his eyebrows slightly. He was sure of what he had seen. Sherlock's cheeks had been wet. From _tears_. Slowly, he allowed his mind to convince him that he had just imagined it. Sherlock of all people would never ever cry. Not over anything. John must have made up the haunting image.

"I've been thinking…" Sherlock started, his voice slicing through John's thoughts like a knife. John looked up at him, half amused, despite the situation. Thinking? Sherlock did little else. "Yes, I've been thinking, unlike _some_ people." The taller man retaliated. John knew better than to start an argument and held his tongue patiently, waiting for the master plan. "And I've come to the conclusion that we're going to have to wait for help."

"W-What?" John exclaimed, taken aback. "Wait here? But they won't find us… and who would be looking?"

"Mycroft will start a search within the next six hours, I reckon. We have to rely on him." His tone was unemotional.

John stared at him, shocked. "Rely on your brother? Since when did you ever do that?"

Sherlock's response was icy.

"There's nothing else we can do. Unless we want those dogs to tear us up." It wasn't a pretty thought. "Mycroft is the only one right now who can help us."

"But… what if they don't find us in time? We could be anywhere on the mountain. There's an awful lot to search out there."

"Then we'll starve. Go back to sleep, John."

John realised that his mouth had opened in shock. He swallowed.

"So we're likely… we might die?"

A nod was all he received.

"Sher –"

"I said go to sleep. Conserve your energy. We have a long wait."

Hurt to the core, John obeyed. He pulled the coat back over himself and lay down gently, careful not to move his injured ankle. Sherlock was still pacing up and down the wooden floor.

_He really couldn't care less, could he? _John thought, staring at the ceiling. _I may call him a friend, but he doesn't view me in the same light. He doesn't care about me. I'm an idiot to think that he would have done._

He kept his eyes fixed on the timber ceiling, mulling things over in his head. All he could hear were Sherlock's footsteps rhythmically pacing up and down, up and down.

And at last, disregarding his swollen foot, he drifted off, dreaming of wild dogs, and himself, and Sherlock, and snow…


	8. Chapter 8

Sherlock prodded at the fire and the flames flickered and danced.

His friend was finally asleep. That ankle must really hurt…

Why? Why did Sherlock allow himself to start feeling sympathetic? Why did he, dare he say it, _care _about John Watson? It was against his nature. He had never allowed himself to give into emotions before. It was not an advantage, and he didn't want to start sympathising with anyone but himself. Not now. But he was. And he hated to admit it.

He cared about John. He'd had a lucky escape earlier on, persuading the doctor that he hadn't really been crying. But he had been worried sick and he still was.

_Stupid. You should be thinking of the rescue plan. _He reminded himself. That was the worst of it. He knew what he was going to have to do next, and he was doing it because he wanted John to live.

He wasn't wearing a watch and neither of their mobiles was working, so he could only estimate the time. This was Sherlock Holmes though. He had a good idea that it was just after dawn. If he left now, he would have the maximum amount of daylight. Otherwise he would have to wait for another twenty four hours, and they would both be weaker by then.

"Right." He whispered to himself. "Time to say…" He broke off and looked at John's sleeping form, contemplating what the reaction would be when the blonde man woke to find himself alone. But John was already angry at him, he wouldn't care much. He'd just be more furious at Sherlock for deserting him. He had to reassure John some way or another.

Ten minutes later, he placed the scrap of paper on the floor, within reaching distance, so John wouldn't have to exert himself to get it, before extinguishing the fire skilfully and grabbing onto the box of matches.

He took one last look at his blogger.

…_Goodbye._

And he faced the chimney. 

John woke up.

He stared at the ceiling again, a gnawing sense of hunger jabbing into his side painfully. Silence was booming from all directions, but that was only to be expected. Sherlock was often quiet when thinking. He was probably deep in thought presently, so now wasn't a good time to disturb him.

John lay there.

He had forgiven Sherlock, of course. There was no denying that he had hurt John in a way that was worse than the pain in his ankle, but… John had realised that no matter Sherlock said or did, he considered his flatmate to be his mate. His closest mate.

John knew Sherlock ought to be apologising; he was probably thinking that he had lost his best friend after what he had said. But Sherlock wasn't likely to say sorry. It was up to his 'assistant', as usual.

"Sherlock…" He began. There was no answer. John hadn't expected one. "You know, it's really hard being… your friend sometimes. But I still am. Whatever you – or I – might say. Okay?" Silence. "Please, don't be angry. We need to focus on getting out of here." Silence. "For crying out loud! Sherlock, are you even listening –" John rolled onto his side, careful not to damage his ankle further, and stopped abruptly, thunderstruck. "Sherlock? Sherlock! What the...?"

He was the only one in the cabin.

In a frenzied alarm, John struggled up so that he was sitting.

"SHERLOCK!" His voice rose to a panicked cry. This was nightmarish. "No. No, no, no, no…"

He saw the paper on the floor. In a daze, he picked it up.

It was their receipt for the hotel they were meant to be staying in. He turned it over in his hand and there was writing on the back, very brief and small because of the lack of space. Sherlock's handwriting.

_I have gone to find help. It is our only chance. Relax and conserve your energy. I hope to be back soon – if I'm not, I just want to make it clear that it's my fault we're out here. Don't blame yourself for anything.  
><em>_Sherlock._

"Sherlock." John whispered. The darkness closed in on him, as he sat there, unable to comprehend the facts. He was now alone in the cabin. Sherlock had most likely been killed by the wild animals outside or the cold (the coat had remained with John). And his own death would soon follow… the darkness was _literally _closing in on him.

The dying embers of the fire slowly faded from glowing red to black. The little wooden room was dark.

_I don't want to be by myself._

And John was left alone, without the comfort of the fire to give light, warmth and… protection from the dogs above.


	9. Chapter 9

Climbing up the chimney was harder than Sherlock had initially expected. There were no footholds and the cinders, which had drifted up from the extinguished fire, were settling down on his pale features. Sherlock was not a vain man, but he still grimaced in annoyance when he realised how blackened his face would now appear.

The howling from the outdoors had temporarily ceased, so this was his only chance of escaping without being mauled by stray creatures. He was seizing this chance, hoping desperately that he was making the right choice.

Propelling himself up with the aid of his legs, he struggled towards the weak morning light, wheezing quietly with the effort, before choking on the ashes he had breathed in.

"Aa…aa…"

Sherlock suppressed the urge to sneeze, knowing that if John woke now, he would find it harder to leave. He pushed up again, and his hands groped for the top of the chimney. At once, they began to cool in the arctic temperature, and as he scrambled onto the snowy ground with one final effort, he was already shivering. He knew that John would need the fire lit while he was away. The only reason that the dog earlier hadn't fallen through the chimney opening and eaten them alive was because of the fire. Without that, the dogs would attack in minutes…

…The dogs!

Sherlock staggered to his feet and whirled around in trepidation. Nothing. Just snow and mountainous slopes as far as the eye could see. Nothing. Sherlock steadied himself, his heart thumping in his ears, his breath fast and uneven. Nothing. Nothing.

_I shouldn't be afraid. I'm _not_ afraid._

After several more gulps of fresh air, he attempted to focus his mind. Shaking – because of the cold, not the fear, he reminded himself – he reached into his coat pocket. This coat was not adapted for this climate; it was his normal impressive one that he wore on cases in London. He had left his parka in the cabin, so his friend would have extra warmth.

From the pocket, he took out the box of matches. Fire. For John.

Acutely aware of the lurking dangers, he peered down the chimney hole. He would have to stretch if he wanted to relight the wood in the hearth. Back to the snowy landscape, he took out a match and lit it expertly. It flared brightly, then flickered, feeble as the icy grip of the world attempted to consume it.

Hastily, to reduce the chance of it going out, Sherlock leant back over the chimney top and stretched down as far as he could. His hand dangled, half a metre from the grate, but he couldn't go any further. He dropped the match, unsure if it would stay alight until it reached the fire. Luck was against him. The small flame died before it reached the logs below.

The detective gritted his teeth, determined to succeed. He re-lit another match, and tried again. This time, he strained down even more, close to toppling in. He dropped the match, a little closer than his first attempt, and was successful. The logs beneath him began glowing orange and at last the flames began to spread.

Sherlock planted his feet on solid ground once more, smiling a little. At least John would be safe. With a bit of luck he would wake up soon and keep the fire going. If he didn't… Sherlock shivered at the notion. He was the one with the matches, so the chances of John starting another fire were next to nothing. He could only hope that the worst didn't happen.

For now though, he had his own safety to worry over.

His ears detected the dreaded sound of howling, echoing from all sides. And it was getting closer. Within a matter of seconds, he could hear the individual animals, barking and grunting, surrounding him. He could hear the crunch of snow beneath their paws as they raced nearer. And finally, they appeared, from slopes all around him. Twenty of them at least. Huge, black and brown dogs, pelts slick and shiny, bones almost visible. These dogs were hungry. And Sherlock was a lovely warm piece of meat perfect for them to feast on.

Stuffing the box of matches back in his pocket, he scanned for an escape route wildly. There were no dogs in the east, where the sun was spangling its rays over the frozen snow. That was the only way to go. It was the wrong way too. The remote village with the hotel was in the opposite direction, but... there was no time to be picky.

Sherlock ran.

The dogs howled in unison and started their pursuit.


	10. Chapter 10

John sat in the dark, panicking.

Sherlock had gone. Sherlock had left him on his own. Sherlock was going to die out there.

Not so far above him, he could hear the wild dogs snarling, pacing around the chimney opening. They seemed even more excited than before, and it took John a few moments to realise why.

The fire was out. The beasts could get in. There was nothing stopping him from being torn to shreds.

"Jesus." He breathed. "Oh God." His eyes widened slightly in fear. Sherlock may have gone, but John was still here, trapped. He had seconds to react.

In a grim silence, he used his arms to drag himself across the floor, his ankle burning in pain. However, he was Dr John Watson. He had trained in the army. He had learnt how to be brave. He blocked out the pain as best as he could, heaving his body over to the fireplace, sweating from the effort. Frantically, he searched for the precious box of matches he had noticed earlier.

They were gone.

Panic. Sheer panic.

Clamping his hand to his mouth in terror, John quickly realised that the matches had definitely left the cabin. Without them… the dogs would get him. Or else he would freeze to death. Hearing the increasingly eager barks above, he guessed that the former was far more likely.

_Calm down. _This had to be a nightmare. _No. It's not. Calm down right now, or you have no chance. _The voice in his head sounded like Sherlock's, gently but firmly reminding John of the situation.

He became aware that he was shaking uncontrollably. This was worse than Baskerville. The only other time he had ever felt so helpless was in Afghanistan, but even then there were people around to help him.

"P-Pull yourself together." He whispered, stammering. He shuffled backwards, away from the fire, until he was pressed up against the far corner of the wooden cabin, clutching the coat, for futile protection. The animals outside, whatever they were, had been waiting for a long time for their chance to attack. Now, John was having his turn of waiting, wondering when they would decide to pounce.

He searched the pockets of the coat desperately. Found nothing to help him.

That was when he heard the noise. Skittering, coming from the chimney over the fireplace. Followed by short sharp bark, far louder than the others. One of the dogs was coming down here to kill him. Most likely the leader, the biggest, strongest one in the pack.

John closed his eyes, whimpering quietly, the coat drawn up against him, utterly defenceless. In the temporary bliss of the darkness, he fought to stay in command of his mind.

_Don't give up. Stay alive. You need to be staying alive, like the old song goes. You were born a fighter. You fought in war. You've killed men. It can't end like this. _

And then Sherlock's letter filled his thoughts. _It's my fault. _Sherlock had gone out, was braving the wilderness, believing that.

_I have to make it, or Sherlock will live thinking that he helped kill me._

John opened his eyes sharply, back to reality. A bundle of black thumped down onto the grate. And that bundle uncurled and stretched itself, revealing the biggest (real) dog John had ever seen. It had narrowed bloodshot eyes that were solely focused on him, a huge muzzle and powerful muscles in both its front and rear legs, but worst of all were the teeth. Razorblade sharp and seriously big. Strong enough to rip him up in seconds.

John controlled his alarm, and lowered the makeshift blanket slowly to the ground, where it lay as a heap by his feet.

He might have no weapons, he might be injured so he couldn't stand, he might be tired and hungry, but he would fight till the death. That much was certain.

The big angry dog growled aggressively, advancing on him slowly, contemplating the best way to kill him. John was having none of it. He was suddenly very weary of all of this.

"COME ON!" He yelled. "GET IT OVER WITH!"

The dog needed no further incentive. It bounded towards him, and then leapt for his face.


	11. Chapter 11

**Wow! I had a record number of hits with chapter ten. Thank you to everyone for reviewing, putting this on Story alert etc, or just reading.  
><strong>**Boxerbee (and anyone else confused about the fire): Sorry I didn't make it very clear – I sometimes find it hard to express everything plainly. When Sherlock goes out via the chimney, he has to put the fire out. For John's safety, he relights it, BUT John wakes up later than Sherlock hoped he would so the fire is very low - as it needs more kindling. John isn't in time to keep it going. Or something along those lines. I hope I haven't confused you more!**

**I'll try updating soon, but I'm going away for nearly a week. I'll be back though!**

Mycroft Holmes was sitting alongside several of the most influential politicians in the economic world. To his right, the English prime minister was rambling on about the failure of foreign policies, expressing his opinions to the twenty other men and women in the room. To his left, the deputy prime minister of England was looking distinctly bored, stifling a yawn, while the president of the United States, seated opposite him, beamed in agreement at what his ally had to say. Mycroft's observational skills were a little rusty, but he could tell that beneath the smile, the most powerful man on Earth was completely against the radical proposals.

"What do you think, Mr Holmes?" The French security officer asked lazily, interrupting the prime minister mid flow. He obviously wanted Mycroft to say something smart against the English man. Mycroft opened his mouth to utter some smart comment, when his phone buzzed silently in his pocket. For a second, he was puzzled. He wasn't expecting any calls at this time… oh, Sherlock had got into trouble. Again. He ignored the message; Sherlock was in capable hands. His men were reliable enough to deal with whatever it was themselves.

For now, he had the more pressing issue of convincing the person next to him what a stupid idea firing missiles at the Middle East would be in the current state of affairs…

Sherlock Holmes, unlike his brother, was not sitting down comfortably. He was running for his life.

He raced up one snowy slope and down another, not daring to look back. He could still hear the howls though. The volume was quite close, and taking the wind into consideration, he calculated the dogs were less than six metres from him. And closing in.

His muscles screamed at him, begging him to stop. He ignored them, and ran on, sending snow spraying as he slipped and tumbled down a steep slant. He jumped back to his feet, panting from the sudden exercise and shivered from the cold simultaneously.

Off he went again, and now he was sprinting past widely spread pine trees, further snow heaped onto each of the branches. The dogs were incredibly close now, as he zigzagged past the trees which were steadily increasing in number. He took a brief look over his shoulder, and his pulse jumped up even more. Most of the pack had continued the pursuit. He rightly guessed that the others would be waiting for John. However, at the moment, he had a rather more pressing issue. The nearest dog was less than a metre from him, and as he turned his head forwards again, he felt a searing pain as the same dog clamped its teeth firmly around his leg.

With a cry, Sherlock stumbled and fell, next to one of the trees, flailing and kicking hard. The dog was flung away, but the others had now formed a tight circle and were snarling from all sides.

Without a second thought, Sherlock leapt for safety, towards the pine tree. Another dog grabbed his leg, trying to pull him back down. Snow tipped off the branches and fell onto his face as, struggling, he clung on to the bark for dear life. His hands clawed desperately, and miraculously found a grip. He automatically wrenched himself up, both his legs kicking at the dog, his left leg in agony. He, she or whatever it was continued struggling to keep a hold on him. It weighed a ton. Sherlock pulled himself up and up. The branches were smacking into his face like bullets when they bounced back after he pushed past them. At last, he felt the teeth leave his bloodied leg, and he scrambled up to the top of the tree.

From here, he could see far more than at ground level. He perched on a relatively sturdy branch and traced his route. His footsteps, imprinted in the snow, were very faint. They should lead back to the cabin, and he could see the chimney sticking out from where he was. Below him, the dogs seemed to be composing an extremely flat piece of music, cumulated with an assortment of barks, howls and whines, all out of key. Sherlock grimaced instinctively. He never could stand a poor harmony.

All he could do now was wait. What he knew would happen was that there would be a helicopter out searching for him. Them. John, he was certain, was safe for now, as long as the fire was still…

"Oh no." He couldn't hide his total dismay. Squinting at the far away chimney, he couldn't see any smoke. And no smoke meant no fire. And that meant no protection. And – "Oh no, no, no." He said in an undertone, mortified. The shadowy outline of more dogs around the chimney was plain to see. And the biggest one was leaning into the chimney and –

It went in. Right into the chimney, disappearing from view.

John was about to die.

And Sherlock could only cling to the tree, helpless, and unable to get down.


	12. Chapter 12

**I had no idea how to get out of that cliffhanger, so I did the only thing I could! It's quite short, but the next chapter will hopefully compensate! Probably only three more chapters after this. All stories need to end somehow... :)**

He was so overwhelmed by guilt and panic that, at first, Sherlock failed to register the sound of an engine overhead. Then his brain processed the noise.

Mycroft's people had found him.

Below, dogs whimpered and fled, racing off to escape the clutches of the helicopter. Sherlock clambered down the tree. His hands were so frozen that he slipped halfway, but landed on the soft snow unhurt. He scrambled to his feet, wishing that his leg would stop complaining and waved wildly, feeling like an idiot and not caring. Help was here; he'd been spotted and the chopper was heading down to land.

"Hurry up!" He yelled. He had done with being patient. John was dying, or worse, and the seconds were ticking by unperturbed. The helicopter came into contact with the flat plain off snow and spluttered to a standstill. Sherlock limped over – and stopped dead in his tracks.

"_M-Mycroft_?"

His older sibling was standing behind the open door of the aircraft, and now he jumped down onto the snow. He was wearing a very thick fur coat and holding a spare one in his hand, which he passed to Sherlock.

"Mycroft." Sherlock repeated, still amazed that his brother had left London – left his _office – _for him.

"Sherlock. You could be a little more grateful. I had to pull out of a major world meeting because of your stupidity. Just look at that leg. If mummy –"

"Listen, I don't care at the moment." Sherlock intervened, shrugging the coat on. "What matters is that…" He broke off sharply and gulped, blinking hard.

"What's wrong?" Mycroft drawled, as impassive as ever. "Sherlock? … Where's Dr Watson?"

"SO NOW YOU REALISE!" Sherlock exploded. "WE WERE SNOWED IN! HE WAS HURT! I… I…" He faltered and struggled to control his voice. "We need to hurry. A dog has… got into the cabin. He might… be… he might be d-dead." He was shivering hard now, scowling all the while. Mycroft could see that the last sentence had been incredibly hard for Sherlock to admit.

"We'd better be quick." He agreed. Sherlock was already hobbling away, trying to run to help John. "Wait!" Mycroft called. "The helicopter will get us there faster."

Moments later, the two Holmes brothers were on board and the helicopter lifted up. Sherlock may have been worried about John, but he still had enough sense to direct the pilot to the correct area. He didn't have long to inspect the interior of the flying machine, although he quickly surmised that this was a medical helicopter, with a paramedic and a man with a gun on board, clearly in case of danger. Within a minute, they had landed again, nearly a hundred metres from the chimney. Sherlock felt the soft thud as they touched the ground and pulled the sliding door open before the engines were turned off.

"Sherlock, calm down!" His brother warned. Sherlock couldn't hear him. The only thing he could hear was a monotone of _John John John. _

He jumped back onto the snow, his leg on fire. Then he was sprinting as fast as he could to the small opening of the chimney. From all sides, dogs were bounding towards him. Mycroft was shouting at him, furious, from the safety of the helicopter, but Sherlock could only imagine what he would find in the cabin.

Had John been killed already? Or had he somehow overpowered the dog?

Speaking of dogs, several of them were lunging at him, certainly aiming to kill him. Shots ricocheted around him and the dogs nearest to him crumpled, all killed instantly. The detective knew without looking that it was the handiwork of the gunman and that he was in safe hands. John though… was not.

He finally reached the only means of entry into the cabin and swung his legs over before dropping down into the grate.


	13. Chapter 13

**This chapter was quite hard to write. Things look bleak , I now, but please bear with me! Cliffhanger again... 0:**

Sherlock landed with a thump, awkwardly, hurting his foot further and banging his head. The room was spinning as he rolled out onto the wooden floor. It was still spinning when he looked around the room. His eyes were immediately drawn to the far right hand corner.

"J-John?" He whispered hoarsely, his voice shaking. "You… you're alright, a-aren't you? P-Please?" He crawled towards the shadows, his heart hammering. He took in the broken body of the huge dog, its eyes open and unseeing, its neck snapped. It was sprawled on top of John's legs, who had managed to kill the attacker with his bare hands. Then again, he had been in the army, so it was no real surprise. But – John was lying in a pool of his own blood.

Sherlock grabbed the carcass of the beast roughly, hurling it across the room in disgust. He edged closer, deeply afraid, and tentatively shook his blogger's shoulder. There was no response. In the gloom, John's eyes were closed, his face pale, save for a dark line of blood trickling down his cheek from a deep gash in his head. Running like tears. Blood was also seeping through his jumper and leg. The injuries were horrific, but Sherlock was so paralysed that he didn't comprehend the amount of blood dripping away onto the wooden planks. John's life force. And John was losing so much of it.

Sherlock had trouble keeping himself together. Extremely gently, he lifted John's arm and clasped his wrist, checking for a pulse, feeling strangely lost, like a child.

Above him, shots were still ringing out. He felt no pity for the animals. They had killed… he detected a very faint pulse. They had _nearly _killed…

A _pulse_!

"John?" Even his voice sounded like a child. He tried again, holding the doctor's flaccid hand and squeezing it gently. "John, wake up. John! You need to hang on." The fatally wounded man was wheezing, unconscious, breathing brokenly. Each breath was taking longer and longer to draw. John was slipping away fast. "Why did I…? I'm an idiot. A complete…"

It was then that he finally noticed that blood cascading around him. John had already lost around a - of the crimson liquid. Any more and there would be no hope. Sherlock tore off the coat Mycroft had given him and ripped one of the sleeves with incredible strength. He tied it tightly around one of John's legs, which was the main cause of blood loss. That at least would help. And at least he was being useful.

He looked around quickly, about to ask John if what he was doing was correct, for a second absolutely convinced that the man in front of him was a total stranger and that his flatmate was about to talk from behind him. _Say something. Anything. _All he saw when he turned was the empty room.

He looked back and the man was no longer an unknown face. It was John. John Watson. His John Watson, wearing John's Watson's clothes, with John Watson's hair and nose and mouth and –

Sherlock nearly choked.

This was John. His best friend. The only person he _really _cared about. Even Lestrade and Ms Hudson were just good allies. And Mycroft was not what you would call 'close' to his heart.

But John. John was irreplaceable. Not in the way someone would describe a lover. This was different. John was simply his best friend. He knew what to say, how to cheer Sherlock up, how to make Sherlock _understand _people. And now he was going to die and it was Sherlock's fault.

The younger man tenderly began to stroke his best friend's hair, on the side that wasn't bleeding.

"Stay with me. Don't go. T-Trust me on this, okay? For me, J-John. Trust me." His voice was a ghost of a whisper. But instead, John was steadily getting worse.

Sherlock held his hand.

He barely noticed the man with the gun landing with a thump on the floor, followed by a red faced, panting, exhausted Mycroft and the paramedic. He barely noticed them run over to where he and John were. All he could notice was John's condition deteriorating rapidly.

Mycroft was easing him away, but he was wasting words because Sherlock couldn't hear him. It took him a while to get his brother to slowly stand up and step back in a dreamlike state.

Sherlock felt his fingers slipping from John's and as they parted a voice in the back of his head, sounding disconcertingly like a certain Jim Moriaty's, said coldly: _And that's the last time you'll ever touch him when he's alive._

Sherlock gasped loudly and pulled away from Mycroft's grip. The paramedic was checking for signs of life.

"No good, we're losing him. We need assistance. Now." He muttered, loud enough for everyone to hear. Sherlock could have sworn that the room dropped by ten degrees when the paramedic began pressing down on John's chest with force.

John's heart had stopped.

_Oh God, John. What have I done?_

Mycroft was saying something into his phone and then put his hand on Sherlock's shoulder, saying something else. Sherlock completely ignored him, although this time Mycroft forgave him. The younger Holmes knelt next to his friend, well out of the way of the medical professional at work, and took hold of the limp hand once more. He held it and rubbed it and stroked it, desperately wishing John to come back.

The cabin room blurred a little. At first he thought he was crying, and that was understandable in his opinion, but he wasn't crying because there were no tears. And the room was spinning again. He was breathing fast and his hands were clammy. The paramedic was purely focusing on John, but Mycroft noticed. He carefully went over and crouched next to Sherlock. His voice cut through the silence as he spoke to the man with the pistol. Sherlock gleaned that his brother was talking about him and heard a few phrases such as 'in shock' and 'may collapse' used.

He came close to smiling in that moment of madness.

Collapsing? Sherlock Holmes had never collapsed before nad he wasn't going to start now.

Something happened to him then. His body seemed to switch from on to off in the space of half a second. Like a light. On. Off.

He was out cold before Mycroft caught him.


	14. Chapter 14

**This is the penultimate chapter. Things need to be properly tied up, so there's one more following soon(ish). Thanks for reading this far!**

_Sherlock is having The Dream. He knows he is because he's had it before, countless number of times. He always wakes up shivering. Right now, he is in Baker Street, playing his violin. Hears the latch open. Counts the impending footsteps. Seventeen steps.  
><em>_He faces the wall as usual. He never wants to see John in this state. He waits, unable to escape or wake up. Please, I don't want to see you like this. He recalls the last Dream. John always sounds genuinely angry and it pains him. Even before he speaks, Sherlock knows what he is going to say. "You left me for three years. You pretended you were dead and you lied to me. I hate you." The worse thing is that John has said this in real life too.  
><em>_And this nightmare haunts him constantly.  
><em>_Only this time, John says something else. In this version of The Dream, John doesn't sound angry. He's begging.  
><em>"_Sherlock." It's no more than a whisper. "Sherlock, help me. It hurts."  
><em>_Sherlock breaks out of the trance and turns. For the first time in any of these Dreams, he drops his violin and it splinters on the carpet.  
><em>"_John."  
><em>_The doctor is drenched in blood, pain etched all over his face. Blood drips onto the once clean floor and begins spreading through the carpet until it reaches the detective.  
><em>_John tips towards the floor.  
><em>"_No!" Sherlock runs up and catches him. He leans over, shocked and confused. The Dream this time is too real. This is really happening. "John!" His friend's eyes are closed. Sherlock feels for a pulse. There is nothing. He wants to help, but his body is frozen by an invisible force.  
><em>_The stairs begin to creak for a second time as a third person approaches.  
><em>_And Sherlock knows who it is.  
><em>"_NO!" He screams. He still can't move. The door opens and Moriaty stands triumphant.  
><em>"_Evening Sherlock. I'm your paramedic for today. Do you want me to kiss your little Johnny boy better? Or should I just get it over with?" The gun appears from nowhere and he shoots into John repeatedly, while Sherlock, paralysed, can only sob. Blood is everywhere now.  
><em>"_NO! STOP IT! YOU'RE KILLING HIM, HE NEEDS HELP! GO AWAY! GO AWAY! JOHN! JOHN! NO, NO, NO, NO!" With every 'no', Moriaty slaps him, chanting his name mockingly. "No, no, no…"_

"No… John… n-no…"

"Sherlock! Sherlock! Wake up right now!" Mycroft was lightly hitting his face to rouse him.

Sherlock sat up, the world swimming into view. He was lying in a hospital bed. The stench of disinfectant was everywhere. He was in a private room, attached to a drip. Mycroft leant back in his chair, satisfied that his brother was finally awake. He was the only other person in the ward.

Sherlock wanted to talk, but found it too exhausting, so sank into the pillows. He had not forgotten about John for one second, but there was little he could do other than receive news.

"You were given sedatives to help you sleep, so you may feel a little weak. We're in the local village hospital, in case you're wondering." He informed. Sherlock couldn't answer. Even if he had been strong enough to, he wouldn't have been able to, for fear that his voice would betray his emotions. John. John. John.

He inspected Mycroft, who calmly met his penetrating stare. Try as he might though, he couldn't deduce any information about John from his brother. Then again, that had always been the case. The only two things evident were that Mycroft had not slept for at least forty eight hours and had recently drank coffee to stay awake, going by the small stain on his shirt cuff. Useless information. He frowned at his infuriatingly annoying sibling, all at once desperate to know what had happened. If John was… dead… Mycroft appeared to read his thoughts, but kept quiet.

Not wanting to beat about the bush any more, Sherlock managed to slur out John's name out loud, as a way of encouraging Mycroft to talk. His voice did betray him - it was shaking and sounded nearly as concerned as he felt.

Mycroft sighed.

"I would prefer if you got more rest first, but as you're so insistent… both of you were airlifted here. John underwent an emergency blood transfusion on board. They restarted his heart, but it stopped a further four times…"

He paused. Sherlock was staring at the window. He looked like he was about to cry, despite his attempt at a poker face.

"It's alright, Sherlock. He's stabilised. They're still monitoring him closely, and are unsure when he'll wake, but they're pretty certain he'll make a full recovery. That doctor of yours certainly is a fighter." Sherlock visibly relaxed. However, he was still looking close to tears.

The iceman, Mycroft, didn't realise. If he did, he probably wouldn't have cared. As far as he was concerned, Sherlock was just as cold as him.

"You know that this is your fault." He hissed, his tone switching. "I have no idea what possessed you to go halfway around the world for the sake of one criminal and then explore the mountains with no guide. What kept you alive was luck. That was it. If one thing had gone differently, you would be dead. And worse than that, John would be dead too." Sherlock's bottom lip was wobbling slightly. He twisted away from Mycroft and faced the wall, his eyes welling up with unshed tears. Unfazed and unaware, his brother continued. "You nearly got him killed out there. You were bone dead stupid." The drug slowly cleared Sherlock's system. "You got too complacent, that's what. You thought you were so smart that you could do anything. Not for one second - one _second _- did it ever occur to you to worry about Dr Watson's safety. You know his… his ignorance. You know how ignorant every damn person is. He followed you because he trusted you. You've broken that trust. Intelligence comes with responsibility."

"Please." Sherlock slurred, shaking hard, body still turned. "I know. I'm s-sorry. Please, p-please go."

Seconds later, he heard the chair scrape backwards. "I hope you've learnt your lesson." Mycroft said stiffly. Shortly after that, there was a click as the door closed.

Sherlock curled up tightly and scrunched his eyes tightly. Mycroft words echoed around on a loop in his head.

John was alive and that was great. Sherlock needed to talk to him and see him, but he was too afraid that he would break down.

So the next day, when he was discharged, instead of going to visit his friend, he left at once and caught the nearest plane, leaving Mycroft to ensure John was treated with the best possible care available.


	15. Chapter 15

**Final chapter! It's pretty long, but bear in mind I'm not good at endings, so it was pretty hard for me to wrap things up.**

The days crawled by and slipped into weeks. Sherlock had stayed in 221B the entire time, scarcely eating and sawing away on his violin at odd intervals during the night.

Ms Hudson was worried sick - the man not only looked pale and haggard, but he refused to tell her what had taken place during his latest excursion. All she knew was that something had gone terribly wrong in his time away and John had landed himself in hospital. She had visited the poor doctor, of course. Mycroft had made certain that he was transferred to a hospital in London as soon as he was stable enough, and the patient was now awake and keen to be released as soon as he could.

Sherlock had _not_ visited.

He had texted, of course. The same messages over and over. _Bored. Bored. Bored. _In reality, he didn't know what else to send. John had tried phoning and naturally Sherlock had refused to answer every time.

And one day, out of the blue, John texted that he was coming home.

Sherlock panicked. He cleaned the flat from top to bottom, stuffed his secret supply of cigarettes under the floorboards, where they remained for another occasion, tidied his papers, organised the books in alphabetical order and -

Around two hours later, John texted him further details. He was returning in a week. Not at once. Sherlock nearly kicked himself. He didn't need to get so worked up. John would arrive when he did and he, meaning Sherlock, would somehow apologise… things would be fine. Wouldn't they? But what if John was fed up with him? No longer trusted him? Mycroft had been right. He had been a complete fool.

The rest of the week, he spent cleaning the flat properly and retreating to his bedroom. He refused to reply to John's texts at all and despised it when Lestrade phoned him about a case. He didn't want a case now. He wasn't in the right frame of mind. The last case had nearly killed his flatmate.

That Wednesday, John let himself back into their apartment with the spare keys Mycroft had given him a couple of days before. He had no idea what he would find. Sherlock had left him with little idea about what to expect.

Ms Hudson seemed to be out, but he heard the violin upstairs. The long strenuous notes at once warned him that his friend was deep in thought. John walked softly up the stairs. He was on crutches and the effort left his panting by the time he reached the top step. Gently, he allowed the door to swing open.

Sherlock had his back to him and was still playing the piece. Patiently, the fatigued man waited. The last note hung bitterly and Sherlock lowered the instrument.

Surprisingly, he began rearranging the skull on the mantelpiece instead of turning around. John began to wonder whether he'd been noticed at all.

Then the detective spoke.

"Ms Hudson, I think you ought to buy something sustaining for John when he gets back, I don't want him going hungry…"

The last word trailed off into nothing as he at last faced John's direction. He blinked, started violently and his violin slipped from his grasp and fell to the ground.

"No-!" John began. But it was too late. The beautiful instrument hit the floor and there was a twang and snap as it splintered. "Oh, God… I'm sorry."

Sherlock stared at his valuable possession, expression unreadable. It had been his grandmother's, first crafted over a hundred years ago in France. Now it lay broken at his feet.

"Sherlock…? We can get it fixed…"

There was a moment of silence; a moment that stretched on far longer than it was meant to. Finally, Sherlock spoke softly.

"It was bound to happen. And it was either you or the violin that would break… I… I'm glad you're… ahem, alright." He picked up his fragmented violin and forced a smile John's way. John was simply perplexed. He had no clue what his friend was talking about. Then again, he didn't know about the nightmares. "You must be hungry." Sherlock continued. He sounded oddly cheerful.

"Um, sort of, I suppose. Ms Hudson's gone out, to get some food."

"Fine. Good. Well… you're leaning rather heavily on your crutches. Do you want to… sit down?" John made his way over to his favourite chair without questioning Sherlock's out of character behaviour. There was a tense silence.

"Can you wait a minute, please?"

_Please? _John was certain by now that something was wrong. Sherlock walked away briskly into his own bedroom and shut the door.

Minutes passed.

John remained seated. Of course he was concerned. Was Sherlock upset over his violin? A worse thought occurred. Was Sherlock still blaming himself for what had happened? If he was, John needed to talk to him and somehow reassure him, but the 'highly functioning sociopath' was not someone he would be able to console easily.

At last, the detective reappeared, his eyes slightly red. _Tears_? John tried to look as though he hadn't noticed.

"Um… so what've you been doing while I was… not here?"

Sherlock said, quietly, "Nothing."

"What? So you really were bored then? The texts were for real? Didn't Lestrade need you for anything?"

Sherlock swallowed. His gaze was fixated on the carpet. "He always needs me. But I don't always help him."

"… You, er, should have, I think."

Sherlock finally met his eyes.

"No. I couldn't." John waited for him to continue. Sherlock hesitated. "Look, what happened back in -"

_No, don't say sorry, Sherlock. I won't allow it._

"No." John cut in. "Please don't start apologising. If anything, it was my fault. I didn't raise any objections about what you suggested back then. And I know how you get when you're on a case, risking your life to prove you're clever and all that. I should have seen the signs. I could have stopped all this -"

"Risking my own life is one thing, but I never… I never _dreamt _that I would… nearly end up k-k-killing you."

"It's not that bad. I've been in the army, remember? And I'm not going to hate you or anything. We all make mistakes sometimes."

Sherlock gulped.

"Not serious mistakes. Not like me. I _never _make mistakes. And now I have… you nearly died. You have no idea what I was thinking when I… found you in the c-cabin. I was… I don't know what would have happened if…" He was struggling to maintain his equanimity. All at once, John found himself standing up. He couldn't bear staying in his chair. "No, you need to sit down." Sherlock muttered, reaching over to gently push his injured partner back down. His hand came into contact with John's shoulder - and he flinched and let go.

"W-What?" John asked, puckering his brow.

Tentatively, Sherlock placed his hand back onto the shoulder and kept it there.

"The… the last time I touched you, you were just about dead."

"I'm not dead now, Sherlock. I'm alive. We're both alive. That's all that matters…" He paused for a second to think. "The past is history, tomorrow's a mystery, but today is a gift. That's why it's called present."

"… Excuse me?"

"_Kung Fu Panda_." John explained, blushing a bit. At Sherlock's still vacant expression, he added. "It's a movie."

"Oh. I'm just grateful you're still here. Before now, I didn't know how much I… I needed you."

The next second, John had dropped his crutches and embraced the taller man cautiously. Surprisingly, and much to John's delight, Sherlock hugged him back.

It was only for a couple of seconds, then Sherlock pulled away a little, obviously not used to that kind of behaviour. John sat down heavily and cleared his throat loudly.

"I'm starving. Do you think Ms Hudson will be back soon?"

They never mentioned the mountain incident again.

And life went on.

**Thanks to everyone who's read this and/or supported me by reviewing! I hope the ending's satisfactory enough, not _too _abrupt… I didn't want to make it too slashy, or anything, so I hope I got an okay balance. Thank you all again. Now I can finally focus on exams - argh! Hopefully, I'll write more in the near future though!**


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